How long they toiled on, or how many miles they covered, Lon had no notion. The feeble light of afternoon faded into the gloom of night. Yet Groche seemed to be sure of his course. Lon even fancied that there was a slight increase in the pace. And then, of a sudden, he saw the flicker of the fire through a window of the old house. “Then you’ve no more idea than we where we are?” said Sam. “No more idea than----” Lon began, but broke off abruptly, as his glance, ranging the room, fell upon something which caught his attention. He stepped close to one of the walls, peered at it sharply, and gave an odd laugh. “Wal, I’ll be jiggered! Who’d ’a’ thought it? Lookee here, boys! Stone work part way up, then wood! Say, but it beats cat fightin’!” “What do you mean?” Lon turned to the group by the fire. He was grinning in spite of his weariness. “I mean this is the house old Calleck built up in the woods, the house where old Wallowby fit the bear. So that’s proof of the story--see?” “Proof!” cried the Shark skeptically. “Why not? Said there was such a house, didn’t I? Sure I did, and now I go and produce it. Rest follows as a matter of course.” “Rats!” snapped the Shark in disgust. “Rats nothing!” jeered Step. “All you’ve got to do, Shark, is to--to visualize it--yes, that’s the scheme. Take a dose of your own medicine for keeping the brain clear, can’t you?” “Bosh!” growled the Shark; and in high dudgeon turned his back on the company. It happened that, as a result of the movement, he faced Groche, upon whom unwittingly he trained his gaze, while he meditated darkly upon the extreme unreason of his clubmates. Groche had been lying like a log on the floor, but now he stirred restlessly. He raised himself on an elbow. For a moment he tried, as he had tried once before, to stare down the unblinking Shark; and failed as completely as he had failed on the former occasion. He struggled to a sitting position. He raised an arm, as if to ward off the hypnotic influence of the steady eyes behind the big glasses. And he broke into speech, incoherent, savage, and terror-stricken. Lon limped forward, but Sam was before him, catching Groche’s arm. At this the ruffian turned upon him. “You--you, I’ll get ye, if I hang for it!” he shouted. “You’re at the bottom of it all! You lied about me, and you set that old bloodhound, Bates, on me!” “But you’re mistaken; I didn’t,” Sam said earnestly. “You done it, you done it!” Sam glanced at Lon. “I guess you reasoned out the truth of it,” said he. Groche swore viciously, tried to rise; groaned, and sank back to the floor. “You lied about me, and threw that job o’ yourn on me!” he snarled. “I’ll get even with ye, I’ll get even with ye yet, if I die for’t!”